


A state of sublimity

by Apathy



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 5+1 Things, Barricades, Denial, Humour, M/M, ambiguous ending, see endnote for warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-23 19:10:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14940194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apathy/pseuds/Apathy
Summary: Five times Marius Pontmercy failed to seize the opportunity, and one time opportunity seized him.





	A state of sublimity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [15Acesplz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/15Acesplz/gifts).



> With massive, massive thanks to saltedpin for the beta -- I couldn't have done it without you!
> 
> Thanks also to the anonymous benefactor who answered my random historical questions.
> 
>  **To my recip:** I'm not sure what your preferences are on warnings/spoilers, so I've put a little note in the endnotes if you want it. There's nothing here that's worse than canon, though.

1.

"Dear God, Marius! How do you live like this?"

Indignation and humiliation alike swell within Marius' breast. True, his room within the Gorbeau house is not what even a generous soul would call luxurious - it leans decidedly more towards the modest than the stately, and much of the furniture within it leans in a more literal sense - but it is _his_. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, the bed, the candle - he has paid for all of it, and he would rather live out his days in such penury in the knowledge that he is his own man than accept one single sou from his beastly grandfather.

He opens his mouth to protest, but before he can actually come up with a suitable rebuttal, Courfeyrac continues -

"I am not joking, Marius - I had thought it devilishly cold outside, but this room is colder still! The window has a gap at the edge, there is a hole in the wall, and is that a mushroom I see growing there? Truly, there are more hospitable climes to be found in the innermost circle of Hell."

Courfeyrac pulls his coat tighter about himself, and Marius feels his temper abate somewhat, to be replaced by a creeping mortification. It is with very good reason that he does not usually invite his friends, such as they are, back to his room; he wonders now why he ever allowed Courfeyrac to insist on seeing him safely home in the first place. In truth, they had been virtually on his doorstep before he'd even realised where they were. There had been no reason for Courfeyrac to fuss so over Marius' wellbeing. Marius had been perfectly capable of making his way back home on his own, but his friend had seemed to be seized by a strange solicitude, his hand a warm and steadying presence on Marius' back as they picked their careful way along the icy streets, Courfeyrac singing a little ditty he had picked up from somewhere-or-other as Marius hiccupped against his neck.

He feels his face heating, and he makes a mental note to himself to never again drink anything that has been within ten feet of Grantaire, even if the bottle has been sealed, padlocked, and locked in a vault, for surely it is his fault that Marius now feels so discomfited. 

But, now - what is Marius to do? He has nothing to offer Courfeyrac, not even the simple, honest comfort of a fire upon the hearth, and he has no desire to disturb Madame Bourgon for some hot water at this late hour. But to send him back out into the cold, without having provided him with some sort of hospitality… no, it is too hideous a thought to contemplate.

Courfeyrac shivers theatrically, and Marius finds himself struck dumb with indecision. It is, he supposes, a particularly savage sort of cold tonight. He has mostly moved beyond trying to quantify the intensities of winter: it is cold, or it is colder, or it is colder still, and in all of these cases there is nothing he can do to make himself any warmer than he already is, so there is no point in thinking about it further. 

Still they stand there, and Marius recognises the first twitches of panic within his heart. Should he offer his blanket for Courfeyrac to drape around his shoulders, threadbare and moth-eaten as it is? Should he go downstairs in the dark and boil some water, and hope that Madame Bourgon does not mistake his footsteps for those of some perverted prowler? Or perhaps they could play cards as a diversion... except that nothing is so miserable as trying to play cards with fingers benumbed by cold. Also, Marius does not own any cards.

He is on the verge of simply bundling Courfeyrac down the stairs and sending him home when Courfeyrac clears his throat. 

"I would ask you to come back to my apartment where it is warm, if I did not know that you would refuse, as you have refused so many times before," Courfeyrac says. "And I am not quite sure what it was that Grantaire gave you to drink... but knowing Grantaire, I'm sure it was something regrettable. Additionally, it's a bitterly cold evening. And my apartment is some distance away."

Marius blinks, silently opening and closing his mouth as his still somewhat drink-muddled brain attempts to follow Courfeyrac's line of thought. _Is he... does he want...?_

There is a moment of silence, into which Courfeyrac sighs, almost - but not quite - imperceptibly. 

"What I am trying to say, Marius, is... it may be easiest for me to sleep here tonight. If you are agreeable to such a thing!" he adds, quirking his eyebrow as if in question.

Marius finds that his thoughts are awhirl, to the point where he is not sure he has ever been capable of rational thought, or will be again. The possibility of Courfeyrac spending the night had never even crossed his mind; now the impropriety looms before him, immense and monstrous.

No, it is outrageous, surely... although he is having trouble articulating to himself exactly _why_.

And he most certainly is not _drunk_. He had only partaken in one glass of Grantaire's... _that_... and he is still most decidedly in possession of all his faculties.

"I have only one mattress," he blurts out, and surely that will be enough to convince Courfeyrac of the preposterousness of his suggestion? After all, they could hardly _share_ his mattress.

"It is cold," Courfeyrac says with a careless shrug, and an even more careless smile. "And you are my friend. To share a bed amongst friends, to redistribute some of my excess resources to a fellow citizen in need of warmth - is that not what we are striving for?"

Marius does not know exactly what it is that Courfeyrac is trying to prove. He only knows that he has a headache encroaching upon him remarkably fast, and that his bed seems to be further away from him than it was a minute ago. Perhaps he is not so immune to the intoxicating powers of Grantaire's terrible creation as he first thought. He would appreciate the fact that it seems to be having the effect of making his meagre room appear to be much larger than he knows it actually is, except that now he must make his way across said room to reach his bed.

There is a guiding hand upon his elbow, and he belatedly realises that Courfeyrac is no longer standing before him, but rather beside him. He allows his eyes to fall closed as he makes his slow way towards his bed, Courfeyrac murmuring words of encouragement in his ear, and it is a relief to feel the hard, familiar comfort of his mattress beneath him as he sits.

Everything really is dreadful all of a sudden, and he finds that all fight has gone out of him. Sleep hums its lullaby to him, and he finds himself drifting inexorably towards its warm embrace.

And he must admit that it really is terribly cold. To send Courfeyrac back into that, after inviting him into his house and then providing him with nothing whatsoever, would surely be uncouth.

"Go, stay, whatever most pleases you - only be quiet about it," he mutters, and cracks open his eyelids in time to see Courfeyrac's face break into a smile, the man himself crouched on the floor in front of him.

"Good lad," he says as he stands, and his nimble fingers begin to pull carelessly at the knot of his cravat. Marius watches, oddly entranced, as the line of Courfeyrac's throat comes into view from behind the loosened knot - and a strange heat comes over him.

"That's enough," he says quickly. Courfeyrac gives him a strange look; thinking fast, he adds, "I have only the one nightgown, and I do not wish for you to get cold."

Courfeyrac examines the ends of his cravat, and Marius can see what he is thinking - _this thing will do little to keep me warm_ \- but he does not say it, and Marius is grateful. He knows that Courfeyrac thinks him a prude - that most people think him a prude - but if people want to think less of him for upholding basic standards of decency, then so be it.

"May I at least remove my boots and coat? Surely you do not wish to have them in your bed."

There is some humour in his voice, but the question itself is asked in earnest, and Marius bites his lip and nods. 

Courfeyrac empties his pockets and spreads his coat atop the blanket, and then fetches Marius' nightshirt from the commode. Marius takes the shirt from him, thankful that he then turns away to study the far wall while Marius gets undressed. It is more than he feels like doing in his current state, but there is no chance that he will allow Courfeyrac to assist him. Besides, it is not as bad as all that; he feels unwell, but not so terrible that he should be ill. It is merely an annoyance, and one no worse than being cold or hungry.

He wonders suddenly at what Ursule is doing right now, surprised that he has not thought of her tonight until now. Is she warm and safe? Surely so - Monsieur Leblanc does not seem the type to let his daughter want for anything. The thought reassures him.

He shivers as he pulls the nightshirt over his head, and he quickly slides himself underneath the blanket. There is a moment of startlement, for some of Courfeyrac's warmth lingers still within his coat; he shivers once more.

Uncertainty grips him, tightening his throat. He coughs a little. "I am ready whenever you are."

Courfeyrac turns to him; he pauses for a moment, seemingly hesitant, thoughtful, before he grins and pulls back the corner of the blanket. Marius barely has time to wriggle back against the wall before Courfeyrac joins him, deliberately taking up too much space, shuffling about in the most obnoxious way possible. Marius lies rigid on his back, eyes closed against his headache, and considers whether it would be so terrible to sleep on the bare floor.

Courfeyrac finally seems to settle somewhat, and it is then that Marius makes the awful realisation -

"The candle, Courfeyrac."

More shuffling and rolling ensues, Courfeyrac resembling nothing so much as a giant shrouded worm of some description, and Marius wishes fervently that he had kicked the man out when he had the chance. The net gain of warmth from Courfeyrac's presence will be minimal, if it is offset by the blanket being dumped to the floor as a consequence of his unbridled writhings.

Eventually the room is both dark and quiet, and Marius risks opening his eyes. Above, the feeble light of the stars provides only the barest illumination. Beside him, he can feel Courfeyrac's slow breaths both in the rise and fall of his ribcage, and in the warmth against his cheek. He can smell the wine on him, and, beneath that, a faint hint of his sweat; the whisper of his breathing fills his ear. All is Courfeyrac, and it is strangely wonderful and terrifying at the same time, and he does not know why.

Courfeyrac had been right about one thing, at least - it is warmer this way.

Fear - of what, Marius is not sure - keeps him lying stiffly on his back, even though he does not like to sleep that way. He feels Courfeyrac leaning in closer to him, and he tenses. What could Courfeyrac possibly have to say -

"Perhaps in the morning we can braid each other's hair," he whispers, and Marius groans.

"Good night, Courfeyrac."

 

2\. 

It is possible, Marius thinks - just possible - that he is not cut out to be a spy.

This is not a conclusion he comes to lightly. He has certainly had time to ponder the topic, however, over the last - hmm - three hours, and he cannot help but think that the evidence points to a distinct lack of expertise on his part.

Exhibit A: He had not set out to spy on Courfeyrac in the first place. He had set out, rather, to get his shoe fixed, as the composition of the heel had reached that magical ratio where it was more hole than sole, and the presence of snow in his shoe had become harder to ignore. Surely a competent spy would not stumble across his target by pure chance; certainly he would be aware of the fact that he had a target to begin with, rather than acquiring one by accident.

Exhibit B: Courfeyrac had spotted him within the first five minutes. Of this, Marius is certain. Courfeyrac is not one to look over his shoulder without reason, but he is certainly doing so today. Marius has lost track of the number of times he has had to slide into a doorway, or duck behind a stall, or press his back against a tree; one regrettable time he had had to run down an alley, nearly bowling over a young lady in his haste.

Now it seems that they have come full circle, and Courfeyrac is somehow following _him_. Whether he is pursuing Marius in particular or simply retracing his steps in order to attend to some business in a shop he has already passed, it does not make much difference; Marius is darting ahead of him, one hand holding his shabby hat upon his head as he weaves through the crowd, his breath coming in misty puffs as he tries to find somewhere to hide until Courfeyrac overtakes him once more. Marius cannot help but feel that this is not a glowing recommendation of his abilities.

Exhibit C: He does not actually know why he started following Courfeyrac in the first place. His friend had been there; Marius had been compelled to follow him. It is as simple as that... and yet Marius thinks that he should probably have a reason to pursue this course of action. He has no plan for what he will do, should Courfeyrac fail to confront him; perhaps he will just continue to trail him for the rest of his days, content with the occasional glimpse of his face as he turns to check that Marius is still there.

So: he found Courfeyrac through sheer dumb luck, he is on the run from Courfeyrac for no good reason, and he does not know why he is doing any of this in the first place. There is no judge in the land that would not find him guilty of ineptitude of the most colossal order; truly, he should just go to the nearest station-house and hand himself in. _Ah, there goes Marius Pontmercy. A sad case, indeed - he was simply unfit to leave his apartment._

Marius skitters to a stop in an alleyway, pressing himself as close to the dirty brick wall as possible while trying not to touch it. Peering around the corner and pulling his hat down over his eyes, he sees Courfeyrac across the street, reaching for the door of a book-seller. Courfeyrac hesitates for a moment and looks about; his eyes lock upon Marius, hidden though he is, and Marius shrinks back, his stomach twisting in horror.

Courfeyrac inclines his head a little, almost in - invitation? But no, that cannot be right, and Marius pulls back further still, desperately trying with all his being to become one with the shadows. Why is any of this happening - he only wanted to fix his shoe -

Courfeyrac smiles and shakes his head - what is there to smile about? truly today will be marked in calendars for centuries to come as the day when a portion of Marius Pontmercy's soul literally died in a Parisian alleyway - and enters the shop.

Marius has a choice: go home, get his shoe fixed, or expire where he stands.

He opts for the shoe. He does not recall until he has reached the shoemaker's shop that it closed two hours ago.

 

3.

The problem with sharing a room with somebody, Marius thinks, is that you have to _see_ them all the time.

Not that seeing Courfeyrac on a daily basis is necessarily a bad thing. But it sows a strange confusion in his heart, nonetheless. When they are together, he yearns for escape; when they are apart, he can think of nothing else but how he could contrive to be in his company once more. He frequently finds himself in a tangle, pulling himself in each and every direction until he is one helpless knot.

It has become rather inconvenient, to say the least. Certainly, it is encroaching on the amount of time in which he is able to seek the lovely and elusive Lark - why, yesterday he did not even get a chance to wander down by her meadow!

The situation would not be half so maddening if there were at least some sort of logical motivation behind all of it. He feels compelled to both pursue and flee from Courfeyrac much as a man is compelled to eat and sleep; it is some inexplicable biological imperative, and there is no reasoning with it.

Until this morning, it had not been so bad. Yes, it had been excruciating, but it had mostly been a private kind of hell, his tumbling thoughts jostling his skull as he wandered the streets.

But now, things have come to a head.

For Marius has scattered the seeds of his own destruction to the winds, and now he is reaping the terrible harvest.

Six words:

_I will buy your meal tonight._

Six words, and they have led him up the scaffold, blindfolded him, and placed his head beneath the glimmering blade.

Six words have brought him here to Rousseau's, sitting across from Courfeyrac at a table that is so much smaller than he remembers it being. His whole body is beginning to cramp from self-enforced immobility, but he has no other option - to move his lower half may mean brushing his foot against Courfeyrac's leg; to move an arm any more than absolutely necessary for eating is to risk the touching of hands. He cannot say he would ever enjoy such proximity to another, but tonight it seems imbued with the thunderous dread of impending apocalypse; he knows nothing except that if he should accidentally touch Courfeyrac, he will perish and be no more.

It had been pure foolishness, to insist on buying the man a meal! It had seemed only fair, given that Courfeyrac has been so kind as to let Marius set up camp upon his floor, but now he can see what a terrible mistake it was. Courfeyrac does not strike him as the kind of man to be impressed by turnips; his gratitude and good cheer are surely a façade, behind which lurk the twin beasts of disgust and pity. 

Best to get the meal over and done with quickly, so that they can go home and never speak of it again.

He gulps down the last mouthful, barely bothering to chew, and reaches for some water with which to wash it down -

It is miraculous, really, that he does not spill the water all over the table, given how badly he takes fright when Courfeyrac reaches for _his_ drink at the same time. Marius freezes as their hands brush, imbued with a sudden stillness the likes of which can normally only be achieved by statues; it is only this utter immobility that prevents him from choking on his food.

The downside to becoming a statue, however, is that his brain has also turned to stone. He stares at his hand, at the place where Courfeyrac had touched him, and is shocked to see that it appears as normal. It is inconceivable that he has not been branded, such is the fire that burns through him!

Courfeyrac's hand lingers beside Marius' for a moment, seeming almost indecisive, before slowly retreating; Marius cannot bring himself to look up, to see what kind of horror is upon Courfeyrac's face.

Ah! What is this madness that has overcome him of late? He does not recognise it at all! Perhaps he has fallen ill due to an excess of snow in his shoe, and he has merely hallucinated the past few weeks of his life. It is the only explanation that makes sense. What else could it possibly be?

"Well," says Courfeyrac, and Marius cannot read his tone. "How about dessert?"

Marius drags his gaze upwards with a colossal effort, weighed down as it is with mortification, to see that Courfeyrac is smiling, propping his chin upon that offending hand, a reflection of candlelight dancing in his eyes.

Marius opens his mouth to respond - he is not sure what to say, but surely Courfeyrac should stop humouring him - when a revelation falls upon him from on high.

He has miscalculated - he had thought he had enough money to pay for both of them, but he realises now that he'd forgotten to factor in the extra sou for the waiter. Oh, he will gather his meagre possessions and turn himself out onto the street, in order to save Courfeyrac the trouble of asking him to leave -

Somehow he manages to force the words out through the constriction of his throat - "I have only enough money for one" - and Courfeyrac, damn him, looks _pleased_.

"Then we shall just have to share," he says, and the ever-present pit of horror that resides within Marius yawns open anew.

Images flitter through his mind - Courfeyrac feeding him fruit from his own fork; the two of them reaching for the cheese at the same time; drinking coffee from whence Courfeyrac's lips have so recently touched - and he almost sways in his chair. No. Absolutely _not_ -

"You would not deny me the pleasure, would you? As your guest? I insist that we share."

Courfeyrac looks so damnably _smug_ \- why, he cannot begin to guess - and Marius is torn between the urge to hit him, and the urge to - to -

"As you are my guest, we shall do whatever you please," he manages to get out, and - there. That did not sound so unnatural.

Courfeyrac starts to chatter about something or other. Marius does not hear a word of it, busy as he is trying to sink into the floor.

This is going to be a long evening.

 

4.

"Ah! Doomed love, is it? I, too, am well-acquainted with it. Well, come - I shall attempt to render aid, for what it is worth."

Grantaire pulls a face that is surely meant to be encouraging, but which has entirely the opposite effect. Marius is starting to have second thoughts about his plan - third thoughts, fourth thoughts, infinite thoughts, all of them screaming _you great ninny, get out while you still can_ \- and he is beginning to think that -

_Doomed love?_

The world's rotation comes to a screeching halt; he is flung off on some wild tangent by his own momentum.

What - how has Grantaire managed to come to _that_ conclusion? Of all the -

All he wants is for Grantaire to re-write a letter for him. A letter that he wishes to send to Courfeyrac, in a hand unrecognisable as his own. What is so strange about that? There is nothing untoward about expressing his gratitude and affection to a friend... and to do so anonymously is to bestow happiness upon another without expecting anything in return.

"Love?" he says faintly, clutching the letter to his chest. "No, no, no, nothing of the sort. Merely a letter to a friend, to thank them for their aid in a matter."

Grantaire's expression is decidedly dubious, although it is always hard to tell with his face as to what is deliberate, and what is just _Grantaire_.

"A friend," Grantaire says slowly, rubbing at his eyes, "whom you wish to thank for the services he has performed for you... but you do not wish him to recognise it as your handwriting, even though he will surely know it is you by the substance?" He brightens somewhat, lifting his glass in a toast. "I commend you, good sir - you are already more drunk than even myself, and it is not even yet midday."

"I am not drunk," Marius hisses, a moment before realising that to agree with this sentiment would have provided him with an excuse for his actions, and an opening for a semi-graceful exit. Oh, well; he suspects that he is already far too deep into this mess for anything even remotely resembling grace. Not that he is sure what this mess even _is_.

Grantaire seems to be paying him little attention. "And here I thought you merely wanted me to help you with a letter to your fair lady! You would not even have needed to write it yourself in the first place - I would have written it for you free of charge, as you are clearly in need of my services in this regard, and I am a charitable sort. Ah! You would have been fighting her off, my friend, begging Peneus to intercede on behalf of your virtue, so full of amour would she have been after laying even the most fleeting of eyes upon my lusty scribblings."

It takes Marius several seconds to work out of whom Grantaire babbles - but then a great shame wells up within him. He has not even thought of the Lark in - oh, in weeks! He loves her still, but he has not seen her in so long that he is starting to think that she never existed in the first place. Sweet hallucination! Surely she was too lovely to be true. 

"I would not know where to send it," he says weakly, and then jerks back as he notices Grantaire leaning forward, trying to read the portion of the letter which sticks out from beneath Marius's trembling hand. The man is not even ashamed at having been caught out, but it is alright - Marius has enough shame for the both of them, and he feels his face beginning to burn.

"I must be off," he says. "Thank you for your offer, Grantaire... but on second thought, I think I will just send my own letter."

He will send the letter - straight into the fireplace. What was he even thinking?

Tomorrow, he will look for work again. He will work his fingers to the bone until he can afford his own place once more, and end this bizarre, confounding farce once and for all.

 

5\. 

He has found work.

As is typical, his salvation is his damnation also. For it had been Courfeyrac - who else? - who had come through for him, providing him with a book in English that a friend had wanted translated into French. It is not Marius' usual line of work, being rather more colourful than the dry articles he is more acquainted with... but money is money, and the sooner he gets it done, the sooner he can move into some hovel and hide himself away from everyone he has ever met.

He hauls his attention back to the task at hand. His battered English-to-French dictionary is seeing heavy use; he does not recognise half the words he is encountering, and even when he does recognise them, he cannot figure out the context. Fiction is not his strong suit, to say the least.

He squints at a word that is proving to be particularly confounding. The dictionary has been of no use whatsoever in this instance, and the paragraph surrounding the mysterious word is similarly impenetrable. If he could only work out the context, then maybe he -

His fingers tighten spasmodically, the paper crinkling beneath them. His eyes dart madly down the page, searching for reassurance. Surely he is wrong. This cannot be - Courfeyrac would not have him translate _this_ -

All the blood in his body rushes southwards; his heart hammers wildly. He cannot put his name to such - such -

He will have to have words with Courfeyrac, ask him - no, _tell_ him in no uncertain terms that he will not take any more work from this _friend_ of his. Indeed, he will not finish this job! A shiver runs through him; he feels positively dirty.

It is only when he raises his eyes from that tome of filth that he notices something. Well, not _notices_ per se, because it is not a revelation to him - it is merely that he begins to intuit a meaning behind something he had previously ignored.

For there is a gap in Courfeyrac's bookshelf, where normally there would be none. It should be meaningless - after all, Courfeyrac is allowed to read his own books. But the size of it, the colour of the spine that usually resides in its place - 

He looks back down at the book before him. It is undeniable.

But - what - _why - ?_

A throat clears itself behind him, and he jumps. He cannot turn to look at who he knows is there - foul betrayer! perverter of innocent translators! - but the silence is agonising, counted out second by excruciating second by the tick of Courfeyrac's pocket-watch.

There is something within him which says that he should turn, that he should talk to Courfeyrac - to condemn him, surely, nothing more, certainly not to ask him how that thing he just read is even anatomically possible - but he cannot.

A good thirty seconds pass before he regains control of his senses and drags together the tatters of his dignity. He will speak with his friend; they will sort this strangeness between them one way or another. He does not understand what it is, but it is becoming unbearable.

He takes a breath and turns towards the doorway.

Courfeyrac is gone.

 

+1

There is a lull; there is time to breathe.

He does not like it. Time to breathe means time for reality to worm its way into the edges of his consciousness. Time to breathe means the possibility of realising that they are all going to die here today - in stark truth, not some hazy, glorious abstract.

As for himself, he is mostly not bothered by the prospect of his own death. There is very little he has left - the Lark has long left her nest and migrated elsewhere, and Courfeyrac... well. Things have not been the same; they have not been _bad_ , but there is something between them now, something that averts gazes and turns jocularity to awkward mutterings. If he could mend one thing before today comes to its inevitable conclusion, it would be this.

He finds his attention drawn across the dim tap-room, as if beyond his control. Courfeyrac is speaking with Enjolras, hushed but intense. Marius knows that it is Enjolras who commands the attention of most, but he has eyes only for the one with whom Enjolras speaks. He is drawn to Courfeyrac; he can admit it to himself now, even if he does not understand it. He does not know what it means, but at this point it is more or less moot.

Enjolras departs with a sharp nod of the head, and suddenly Marius realises that all the others have also left. It is just him and Courfeyrac, now... and Marius would laugh, if he still felt capable of it. Despite everything, he is still stuck here with his friend, still unable to articulate to either Courfeyrac or himself just what madness it is that has infected him.

Courfeyrac has crossed the room to talk to him, and Marius nods mechanically at his words. He knows that on one level, he will remember the information that Courfeyrac is passing on; but his conscious mind knows only the way that the pale light catches the angle of Courfeyrac's jaw, the smear of dirt on his brow, the shift of his body beneath his shirt. Marius' hands itch with longing, and he does not realise that he has given in to their insistent demands until they are grasping Courfeyrac's arms tightly, pulling the man in close. There is a moment where he stares into Courfeyrac's eyes, and Courfeyrac stares back, bewildered; then Courfeyrac's eyelids slide shut, and Marius leans in until their lips meet.

The kiss - _I am kissing Courfeyrac, what has become of me?_ he thinks dazedly - is little more than an awkward pressing of lips, surprise on Courfeyrac's part and inexperience on Marius' rendering it hard and graceless. It is difficult to pull back, nonetheless; when he finally does, Courfeyrac stares at him with an unreadable expression.

"Marius, you...." He scrubs his hand over his face and mutters something that Marius cannot make out; when Marius looks at him quizzically, he just smiles and shakes his head.

"Better late than never," Courfeyrac says. His expression is one of fond exasperation. Marius hopes that it is fond, anyway.

Despite everything that has just happened, Marius is still taken aback when Courfeyrac leans forward, their mouths meeting once more even as Courfeyrac's arms twine about him, one sure hand upon his back and the other rising up to cradle the back of his head. Courfeyrac is firm but careful, easing Marius into the kiss; Marius feels that maybe he could learn to do this well, with such an obliging teacher. His head tilts back slightly of its own accord, and a quiet sigh escapes him as Courfeyrac lowers his head and brushes his lips against his throat.

He could spend all night doing this; it is improper and indecent, but he thinks that perhaps he is - mostly - beyond caring about these things. Certainly he knows that he has been the greatest of fools, to have spent these past few months dancing about Courfeyrac the way he has. To think - all this time, he could have been - _they_ could have been -

A sudden yell from outside brings him back to reality; there are places they need to be, things they need to do. Of all the times for him to realise his folly!

He cups Courfeyrac's jaw, lets his eyes rove over his face as if to memorise every detail. How often he has looked at this face, but never really seen it!

Courfeyrac allows it for a moment with a smile, then: "We are needed."

Marius darts one last kiss, lingering for a moment longer than he probably should, before pulling away.

Courfeyrac takes his hand for a moment. Everything is a first, and a last.

As one, they head outside.

**Author's Note:**

> Note for recip: Although there is a barricades scene, there are no actual deaths shown, and I've tried to leave the ending as open as possible so that you can read it as being as tragic or as hopeful as you like. (I'm sure Valjean could find some other reason to turn up and haul them both through the sewers!)


End file.
